Mourning
by FallenNephilim
Summary: The world is in the toliet and so Castiel goes off by himself to pray, wanting to find some reason to hope. Slight Castiel/Dean.


**A short little drabble thing I did. This is supposed to be set just before the episode in season 5 of Supernatural,_ Swan Song._ I always imagined that during those little intervals throughout the episode that Cas was off praying somewhere. Then again, that might just be me and my hopelessly romantic tendencies :L**

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><p>Snow crunched underfoot, packing down into the hard, frozen earth beneath as the lone figure in the trench coat made his way up the trail. The air was cold, choked with the blizzard that swirled through it, and Castiel could hardly make out the silhouette of the temple that was hidden on the side of the mountain.<p>

The place he was currently headed toward was in Russia; a temple that was smack in the middle of a mountain, hidden by the rocks and trees around it. It was not meant to be found. In fact, the only reason Castiel had been able to find it was because Balthazar had helped him out.

Castiel was grateful that he had.

He paused at the bottom of the steps, staring up at the magnificent architecture that outlined the temple. This was a beautiful example of all that the human world had to offer; a wonderful reason to give the angels when they asked what was so worth saving. It wasn't just the people, it was the things the people _did_. The buildings, the lives they created, the names they made for themselves. The music, the cultures, the history; how could you ever want to destroy such beauty?

But, Castiel had never really understood the other angels' methods anyway.

The wind whipped his coat around him as he ascended the steps, ignoring the way the cold sliced through his clothes. It did not bother him. Temperature never did. At the top of the steps stood two large, heavy doors gilded with gold and silver swirling patterns and beautiful craftsmanship. The doors would not have normally opened for him, since the temple was only open on Sundays. But this was a special occasion.

And, even though the doors were so heavy that at least four men had to push with all their might to get them open, Castiel had them swinging in on themselves within moments. Waltzing into the temple as if he owned it, the angel made his way down the aisle and paused in front of the altar, staring up at the golden cross that had been erected behind it.

_Father . . ._

There was so little time left, so very little. And Castiel was running out of options. With his brothers hunting him like a fugitive, the Winchesters close to failure, and hope slowly draining away, there was only one who could help them. Castiel knew that just as surely as he knew that there was no hope – if any – left.

He fell to his knees in front of the altar, bowing his head as he began to pray. He prayed for the world, for the people who called it their home. He prayed for his brothers and those who had fallen. He prayed for Lucifer, for the Winchesters, for Bobby and the other Hunters. He prayed for some way to stop the apocalypse looming on the horizon, for some reason to have hope. He prayed for those who'd made bad choices; the ones who'd lost sight of what was right and what was wrong.

And finally, after all else was said and done, he prayed for himself.

And when he'd finished still he stayed there on his knees, inert with his head bowed and his hands folded together in his lap. His eyes were closed, tears gathering behind them, and he felt the familiar tightening in his chest that had become the norm as of late. Being cut off from Heaven like he was, he'd slowly started to become more and more human. Emotions affected him now; sadness, happiness, hopelessness, anger, jealousy – all of it.

But, despite it all, Castiel reveled in the feelings. He wanted to know that he could feel, because then it would mean that he was alright and that he'd made the right choice. And even as the tears spilled over, running down his cheeks, he knew he'd done the right thing. And he knew that if he ever got a chance to go back and do it all over again, he'd choose the same path. Not just for the world, but for everyone; for his brothers, for his friends, for his family, and – most of all – for the Winchesters. For _Dean._

_Father, help me._ He prayed. _Forgive me, please._

But there was no answer.

_Father . . ._


End file.
